I was listening to “I Can’t Be Satisfied” this morning and that line–“She gonna jump and shout”–has been on my mind all day, as Kathy and I try to figure out what houses we’re going to see on Thursday.
Because, when I think about having a house that I own–well, that the bank owns, but for me–I about have to jump and shout. Thirty four years and I’ve never had a home, never had walls I could paint, repairs I could make, light fixtures I could change. Never could be invested in a house.
We walked through this house on Shadow Lane. It wasn’t right for us, way too small, but I was so jealous of it because when you walked in, you just knew something about the guy who owned it, from the woodland scene wallpaper, to the knotty pine bathroom, to the hat racks and weights in the spare bedroom. Everything about it except for the smelly girly candle and the welcome wreath on the front door seemed designed to please him.
I want that.
To feel like I’m in a place without having to worry about leaving as little trace of me in it as possible.
It will be weird and cool to see if we find something on my birthday. I have a couple of houses I think are real possibilities, unless there’s something really fucked with them.
I don’t know. It’s exciting and daunting, but mostly exciting.
So, excuse me, but I’m gonna go jump and shout.
Tiny Cat Pants 
Here’s hoping. And, of course, if you jump and fall through the floor, you’ll know there are problems.
So, when you close, should I play this, or this.